In order to exact justice, one agent will do anything

A Rocky Mountain Justice story

Catching and killing a cruel drug lord is Ian Wallace’s obsession. So when his former lover, sports agent Petra Sloane, is charged with attempted murder, he sees how to connect her case with his, not how his heart will reconnect with hers. But as Petra’s life is threatened, Ian must decide between sworn revenge...and his true obsession.

JENNIFER D. BOKAL is the author of the bestselling ancient-world historical romance The Gladiator’s Mistress and the second book in the Champions of Rome series, The Gladiator’s Temptation. Happily married to her own alpha male for twenty years, she enjoys writing stories that explore the wonders of love in many genres. Jen and her husband live in upstate New York with their three beautiful daughters, two aloof cats and two very spoiled dogs.

Also by Jennifer D. Bokal

Rocky Mountain Justice

Her Rocky Mountain Hero

Her Rocky Mountain Defender

Rocky Mountain Valor

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk

Rocky Mountain Valor

Jennifer D. Bokal

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-07933-4

ROCKY MOUNTAIN VALOR

© 2018 Jennifer D. Bokal

Published in Great Britain 2018

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

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Version: 2020-03-02

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“We had lots of dreams and plans back then,” he said as he eased the Range Rover up the ramp of the parking garage. “The two of us were going to set the world on fire.”

“In the end, we only burned each other.”

“It wasn’t that bad,” said Ian. “Was it?”

“We broke up and haven’t spoken for more than two years. So, I’d say it wasn’t good.”

Ian edged into a parking space marked as reserved. “No regrets for moving on, then?”

“Regrets,” she echoed with a short laugh. “I’ve never loved anyone in my life the way I love you.”

“Loved?” he asked. “Or love?”

Petra’s breath caught in her chest. She’d been such a fool to rush to Ian.

It wasn’t simply that she was in a mess, nor that he was well equipped to help her. It was that she wanted back what she had lost—the life they shared.

His question still hung in the air, like a cartoon speech bubble with a trail of dots. Loved or love?

* * *

Rocky Mountain Justice: These Colorado mercenaries fight for duty and honor

Dear Reader,

Like the old saying goes, it takes a village to raise a child. And if that’s true, then it takes a small city to get a book into production. With that in mind, I need to thank several people who helped get Rocky Mountain Valor into the world.

To Susan, my editor: thanks for your support, guidance and never-ending optimism. Thanks also to Patience, the senior editor of the line, for your leadership and vision. The art department has created some amazing covers that have left me breathless. Thanks also to my agent for believing in me. I wouldn’t be here without you, Chris. I also want to thank all my writer friends and girlfriends for their support over the years, with a special shout-out to Michaela Stoughton. We might not solve all the world’s problems, but thank you for helping me create the best story possible. Finally, to my family. You are my world. Full stop.

I have one final thank-you to you, dear reader! I am proud, honored and humbled that you’ve taken time from your busy life to read Rocky Mountain Valor.

Enjoy!

Jennifer D. Bokal

PS: Check out my new website, jenbokal.com.

To John. You are my always and forever.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Introduction

Dear Reader

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Epilogue

Extract

About the Publisher

Prologue

Denver, Colorado August 21 5:30 a.m.

Ian Wallace pressed his back into the wall and drew his semiautomatic pistol. The visor of his helmet was pulled low. Black pants. Black shirt. Black Kevlar vest. He blended into the darkness like a shadow.

“Ready,” he said, his voice pitched low. His helmet mic transmitted his command to his team of ten, waiting behind him. His words also went to a van, parked three blocks away, that served as a mobile headquarters.

There was a singular objective with the raid—arrest the three drug dealers, dubbed Comrades One, Two and Three. Yet he was far more interested in what the trio of Comrades knew about Nikolai Mateev, the godfather of Russian organized crime.

For Ian, the hunt for Nikolai Mateev was more than a job, it was his life’s work. It covered his skin, raced through his veins and filled his lungs. He hadn’t felt this soul-deep yearning in years. And the memory of the last time stung deeply. Not for the first time, he found the image of Petra Sloane stealing into his mind at the most inconvenient moment.

He shook his head to clear it, determined to free himself of all thoughts of her. Past was past. They were over. The most important bust of his career—of his life—was about to go down, and he had to remain focused. Eternity passed in the span of a single heartbeat.

“Go! Go! Go!” he said out loud.

Two agents rushed forward, swinging a battering ram, breaking the lock and knocking the door off its hinges. Ian lobbed a flash-bang grenade into the room. Turning away, he ducked down. Light and sound exploded as tendrils of smoke wafted over him.

Comrade Three lay on the floor. A seam had been sliced into his forehead and it filled with bright red blood. Flex-cuffs were immediately slipped around the man’s wrists, and two team members remained as guards. The rest fanned out. Three went upstairs. Ian, with the remaining three, searched the ground floor.

Voices drew Ian’s attention. He sprinted down a short hallway to the rear of the house. He entered the kitchen in time to see Comrade One slip through the back door and into the predawn mist. Comrade Two rushed after him.

“You aren’t going anywhere.” Grabbing him by the shoulder, Ian gave a hard pull, throwing the man to the floor. Instantly, three guns were pointed at his head. The Russian lifted his hands in surrender.

Pulse and breath resonating inside his helmet, Ian ran out the back door in time to watch Comrade One scuttle over the fence. He stopped the chase, his eyes drawn to the ground. The final member of the team writhed in pain, a knife protruding from his thigh.

Ian slid his gun into a holster at his hip as he dropped to the ground and began to apply pressure to the wound.

“What happened?” he asked, his attention torn between his injured teammate and the escaped Russian gangster.

The other man gritted his teeth. “It was Comrade One. I didn’t see the knife and he stabbed me when I tried to apprehend him. I’m sorry, man. I screwed up.”

It was a serious mistake, for certain. Yet there was nothing to be gained with second-guesses.

“We’ll get you patched up,” said Ian. Then into his mic, “Man down. I need backup, stat.”

Roman DeMarco, an RMJ employee with combat experience, slid in next to the downed man. He began to administer rudimentary first aid. “I’ve got this,” he said. “Go.”

Ian was already consumed with the need to capture Comrade One. He took off at a sprint and vaulted over the wooden fence.

He landed in a neighboring yard. It was empty and eerily quiet. Ian scanned his surroundings. Nothing. Yet he refused to give up so easily.

With a curse, he jumped over the next fence, dashed through the yard and jumped over the next two fences after that. Landing on a sidewalk, he spun toward the sounds of screeching tires, as a set of headlights raced up the street. The car swerved. The undercarriage hit the curb as the bumper headed straight for him.

Without time to think, Ian propelled himself up. He came down hard, landing on the hood. His shoulder slammed into the windshield and he pitched forward. In that split second, he caught a glimpse of the driver. Comrade One. Ian continued the roll, landing on the ground. The acrid smell of burned rubber filled the air as the car dropped off the curb, a shower of sparks trailing behind when it sped off into the brightening morning.

Frustration from this latest setback filled his gut. He got to his feet, and for the folks in the HQ van, said, “Yuri Kuzntov, Comrade One, has gotten away. Repeat, Kuzntov, Comrade One, has fled via a dark gray sedan, partial Colorado license plates Foxtrot Echo Four Nine. I’m returning to the scene.”

“Copy that” came the reply.

Lights atop police cruisers, strobing red and white, were visible from four blocks away, while the wail of sirens grew closer. The front door, knocked off its hinges, had been set aside on the stoop. Ian crossed the threshold and removed his helmet, tucking it under his arm.

Comrade Three sat on the sofa, a medic treating his minor head wound with an antiseptic wipe. With curly dark hair and a beard that didn’t quite cover his chin, the Russian was the youngest of the group—aged twenty-four, Ian knew—and the least important.

Turning to the medic, he said, “Get DeMarco to talk to this one.”

Roman DeMarco, Ian’s first employee at Rocky Mountain Justice, was ex–Delta Force and fluent in half a dozen languages, including Russian. Ian spoke Russian as well, but his responsibility was to delegate and prioritize—whether he liked it or not.

“I’ll get right on it,” the medic said.

Ian nodded his thanks and moved to the kitchen. Four ashtrays, filled to overflowing, sat atop the table. Dirty dishes lay on the counter and a trash can vomited pizza boxes and takeout containers onto the sticky floor. Without question, these men had been living rough for days, perhaps weeks. Were they waiting for something? Or someone?

Ian hoped like hell that it was Nikolai Mateev.

Comrade Two sat in a kitchen chair with his hands cuffed together before him. He was the oldest member of the group. His hair was sparse, and his skin was like timeworn parchment—lined, slightly yellow and dry. Inked into his ring finger was an Orthodox cross with three bars. An outline of a diamond surrounded the whole. It was the initial tattoo for the vory v zakone, or thieves-in-law. Russian organized crime. Several other tattoos covered his hands and what could be seen of his wrists. One was for a prison where he’d served time. Another for a crime committed. The rest of his body would be the same and have a more complete list of his misdeeds than any dossier prepared by Ian’s old colleagues at MI5.

Ian eyed him closely. “Ty govorish’ po-angliyski?” Do you speak English? Even though Ian could have conversed in Russian, there were two other uniformed police standing guard, and he wanted to make sure they heard what was being said in case the conversation was ever part of a court case.

The man snorted. “Better than your Russian.”

“Where’s Nikolai?”

“I don’t know anyone named Nikolai.”

Ian refused to play games. “If you can’t help me, comrade, I can’t help you.”

“I don’t want your help.”

“I can arrange for you to be housed in a minimum-security prison. Nice meals. Cable TV. Tennis courts.”

“You think you can bribe me?”

“No,” said Ian, “but I can make it look like you cooperated and are receiving favorable treatment. How long do you think Nikolai Mateev would let you live, even in prison, if he thought you’d talked to the authorities for an easier sentence? Or you can really talk, and I’ll help you disappear.”

The man nudged the sooty ashtray with a finger. It was a simple reaction, but Ian knew he’d hit a nerve.

“You with the FBI?”

Ian ignored the question. Let Comrade Two think what he wanted.

“You don’t sound like an FBI agent. I bet you aren’t. Not with that accent, anyway. You’re English,” he said. “I can tell.”

Ian remained mute, unwilling to share even the most basic details of his life. Let the other man prattle and get nervous. It was just a matter of time before he’d talk. Leaning back in his seat, he prepared to wait the old Russian out.

“Ian?”

He looked at the person who had called his name. Another RMJ agent, Cody Samuels, stood in the doorway. During his years with the DEA, Cody had led dozens of searches like this and Ian was glad for his expertise.

Wearing the black tactical gear of all RMJ operatives, Cody had also donned a pair of blue latex gloves. He held a laptop computer. “I found this,” he said, “hidden behind a wall.”

Ian could feel it in his bones: the computer was going to be a critical link in the long chain that finally led to Mateev.

He turned to Comrade Two. “What’s the password?”

“I don’t know.”

Ian didn’t care if the old Russian was lying or not. “If you can’t be any help, then I don’t need you anymore.” He waved to the two uniformed police officers. “Take him away.”

“Wait,” said Comrade Two. “That laptop was only used for email. I never touched the computer, though, so I don’t know what was sent or received.”

“Take him away,” Ian repeated to the cops. “But have him placed in solitary for now.”

Comrade Two was lifted to his feet and ushered from the room.

Ian waited until everyone was gone and only he and Cody remained. He gestured to the computer. “Whatever we find will be important.”

“I thought as much. Just wanted to let you know before I turned it over to Jones.”

Special Agent Marcus Jones was with the FBI. At the beginning of the year, he had contracted Rocky Mountain Justice to find Nikolai Mateev. It had proved to be an uncomfortable relationship for Jones and Ian—neither man wholly a subordinate, nor entirely in charge.

Yet this was RMJ’s raid. The computer was their find. But once Jones took over, Ian would never see the computer again.

And he damn well wasn’t going to let that happen.

“For now, let’s keep this discovery between the team. We don’t know how significant it may turn out to be,” Ian answered.

Cody narrowed his gaze. “This is evidence,” he said, “and belongs with the FBI.”

“That may be, but right now we have custody.”

“I’m not going to get into a pissing match over evidence that we’re lawfully bound to surrender.”

Then again, maybe Cody had spent too long working in government bureaucracy. “Jones hired us to do the things that he can’t, to circumvent the law. You know what will happen once he gets this computer. It’ll be tagged as evidence then sent to the tech lab for analysis. It will be weeks, or maybe months, before anyone will act on what’s found.”

“And that’s the law,” said Cody.

Ian stared him down, refusing to yield. “If we have the laptop, we can get information now.”

“By breaking the law?” said Cody. “We agreed to this mission. There are still protocols to follow.”

“We aren’t going to catch Nikolai Mateev by following all the rules,” said Ian, his tone growing steely.

While with the DEA, Cody had opened a secret investigation against the Mateev crime family. An informant had been killed and it cost Cody his job—and his reputation at the agency. The road to getting his life back had been dangerous, including discovery of betrayal by people Cody had had true faith in...until Mateev and his money had undermined everything. Cody had nearly lost his life, and the woman and child he loved, fighting the Russian crime lord’s influence.

“Point taken,” he said now.

A rancid notion came to Ian. If he was really serious about stopping Nikolai Mateev, he’d have to break more than a few laws. He’d have to abandon every principle he’d ever possessed, break every oath he’d taken.

In fact, the only way to really stop Nikolai would be to put him in the grave.

Chapter 1

Petra Sloane sat in the cramped radio studio, her elbows resting on the table. A microphone on a metal arm was suspended before her eyes. A blue-and-orange banner hung on the wall, reading All Sports, All the Time. The tagline of Denver’s sports station KDEN AM 1460.

An illuminated red off-air light glowed in the corner. The interviewer, Steve Chan, sat opposite Petra. He had a similar microphone and a reputation for being the toughest sportscaster on the Front Range. As a commercial for custom floor mats ended, Steve flicked up his fingers—one, two, three. The light in the corner changed from red to green and the words On Air appeared.

“Welcome back to our final segment of the morning,” Steve said. “We have with us, in studio, Petra Sloane, a renowned sports agent who represents many famous names in the Denver scene, most notably Joe Owens, quarterback for the Colorado Mustangs. Petra, thanks for agreeing to sit in the Hot Seat today.”

Petra could think of a thousand places she’d rather be than on the popular radio show, forced to talk about a client. The stress registered as a pain between her brows. Forcing herself to ignore the oncoming headache, she leaned in to the mic. “It’s a real pleasure to be here, Steve,” she lied.

Even though she was on the radio, Petra had taken extra care with her appearance that morning. She wore a sheath dress of ballet-slipper pink, with a matching lip gloss. The light color set off her tanned skin, just as the short sleeves accentuated her toned and muscled arms. Her dark wavy hair was up in a bun at the nape of her neck.

“Let’s not waste any time,” Steve began. “Your client has had a rough month. Two weeks ago, he was kicked out of a downtown club for disturbing the peace. Then last week there was a viral video of Joe cursing at a waitress who didn’t get his order right. And just yesterday he was ejected from a press conference after throwing a punch at my fellow KDEN reporter for asking a question about the preseason debacle against Washington. The city of Denver loves Joe, but I have to ask—what’s his deal?”

Petra exhaled. “There is no deal. I think we forget that sports stars, or any celebrities, are humans first. They have good days and bad, just like the rest of us. I’m sure you’ve had difficult days, and said or done things you later regretted. Why isn’t Joe Owens allowed the same latitude?”

“I’ve never screamed at a waitress for not remembering to bring ketchup with my meal,” said Steve.

Petra’s phone vibrated with an incoming text. It was her boss, Mike Dawson, with a terse two-word message: Take control.

“I’m glad to hear that you’ve never done anything so stupid,” Petra said. “But I think we forget that celebrities are people whose lives are lived under a microscope. Joe’s behavior has been bad, rotten really, but we all deserve a second chance.”

“By now, Joe Owens is on to his third, fourth and fifth chances. When do we stop forgiving or demand better?”

Steve was right, and Petra refused to argue, despite what her boss wanted. The seconds ticked by. “Now,” she said, finally. “We should require better now.”

Steve lifted his eyebrows and cleared his throat. “I’m surprised to hear you be so honest.”

Petra shrugged, then remembered that she was on the radio. “Everyone should be more forthright.”

“Why do you do it, then?” Steve asked. “Why did you become a sports agent?”

Petra smiled and shook her head. “I didn’t come here to talk about myself.”

“I’m just asking because you’re the first agent we’ve had on the show. My listeners will be interested in hearing about you and your job.”

Fair enough. Besides, if she talked about herself, then she didn’t have to defend the indefensible any longer. “I played basketball in college and when I graduated, I wanted to remain involved with sports. Going to law school and becoming an agent seemed like the perfect way to achieve that. And it is, really. I help bring the players to the fans, and also help players manage their own careers, finances...you know, the works.”

“Seems like the safe answer,” said Steve.

“It’s the truth,” she said.

“Why do you really do it? The money? The parties? What is it?”

Petra flipped the phone in her hand. She was here to help Joe’s reputation, not bare her soul. And yet she said, “My dad played for the American Hockey League and he did okay financially. And yes, he had an agent. One day, the agent is in Mexico with more than two million dollars that my father had earned over his career.” She took a deep breath. “That situation taught me that I want to be a very different kind of agent. Someone who represents her clients on the field or the court, but who can also truly look after them when they need me. I want them to be able to trust me with everything.”

“That’s rough,” said Steve. “I’m sorry about your dad.”

“It gave me a unique perspective,” she replied.

“Joe Owens is a lucky guy to have you for an agent. But I gotta ask one last question.” Steve leaned forward. “There’s always a scandal or two lurking. Like you said, famous people get their mistakes examined under a microscope.” He exhaled. “Do you ever get sick of dealing with people like Joe?”

Setting the phone aside, she said, “It’s all part of the job.”

The green light in the corner began to flash. “That’s all the time we have. Before I go, I’d like to thank Petra Sloane for sitting in the Hot Seat. Next up, the morning’s headlines.”

The red light proclaimed they were off the air. Steve leaned across the table and offered his palm to Petra. They shook hands. “Thanks for coming in. Now I wish your client had the courage to take his turn and explain himself.”

“Maybe next time,” she offered.

“Are you saying Joe’s shenanigans will continue?”

Petra hadn’t meant to imply anything, especially not to a media personality like Steve Chan. Her phone vibrated, shimmying across the table. As she glanced at the screen, she couldn’t help but think of the old cliché of being saved by the bell. “That’s my boss,” she said. “I have to take this call.”

“Go ahead,” said Steve, “and thanks again.”

Petra swiped the call open as she exited the studio. “Hey,” she said.

“That’s the sorriest excuse for an interview I’ve ever heard. Why didn’t you defend Joe?” Mike demanded. “Christ, is pointing out that he’s some regular guy the best you can do? Or worse yet, give everyone your sob story.”

“What’s wrong with Joe being a person who makes mistakes?”

“He’s a god, Petra. We need to make sure people see him that way or there will be no contracts for you to negotiate. No revenue for the agency. No money for your paycheck.”

Beyond Mike and his tirade, the radio broadcast played in the background. Petra caught a few words, and then the announcer had her full attention. “In other news, the FBI and other agencies led an early morning raid on a suburban Denver location. The site is rumored to have connections to the new influx of Russian drug trafficking. Now, let’s get a look at that rush hour snarl on the interstate...”

Unbidden, Ian came to mind. In truth, he was always at the edge of her thoughts, his name just a whisper in her breath. Had he been at the raid?

The air was thick with disinfectant and stale coffee. A voice continued to buzz in her ear. It was her boss, still talking. What had he said? Something about making Joe take responsibility was distracting to his career and kept people from idolizing him.

Petra pushed open the door to the studio. She inhaled and held her breath for a count of three, then exhaled slowly. The past disappeared. “I disagree,” she said, finally joining the conversation. “The days of glorifying celebrities have ended.”

“You don’t get it,” said Mike. “It’s the glory that makes them celebrities.”

“You heard the interview. Steve Chan wouldn’t have accepted my saying that Joe is above the rest of us.”

“What I heard was an agent who refused to take control of the interview and get out our message.”

“Next time, convince Joe to go on the show. Let him speak for himself if he’s done nothing wrong.” The sun, a bright white ball, hung in a sky of turquoise blue. Heat shimmered over the expanse of blacktop as she walked across the parking lot. Petra used her remote fob to start her car, a roadster, and unlock the doors.

“And since you mentioned Joe,” Mike said, “several sponsors have expressed reservations about renewing his contract. We can’t handle another scandal. He’s your client. You control him.”

Petra’s phone beeped. She glanced at the screen. “Speak of the devil,” she said. “That’s Joe.”

“Talk to him, Petra. Get him to clean up his act.”

She didn’t bother to point out that Mike couldn’t have it both ways—either Joe was blameless because he was famous, or he had to behave better. “I’ll do what I can.”

“You’ll get the job done,” said Mike, “or find a new one.”

Despite the summer’s heat, Petra went cold. Sure, her boss was taciturn, but Petra was good at what she did. “Are you threatening to fire me?”

“No. It’s a promise.”

Mike’s call ended abruptly and Joe’s immediately came through.

“Petra?” He sounded breathless. “We need to talk.”

Was he going to complain about her performance, too? “Hey, Joe, did you hear the interview?”

“No. What interview?”

“I just spent a few minutes with Steve Chan in the Hot Seat.”

“Oh, that show can get brutal.” He paused a beat. “Listen, something happened. I need you to handle the public relations.”

“That’s what I was doing, Joe. Public relations, as in talking to Steve Chan about you.”

“Well, you might have to visit his show again because this is bigger than big. Lots of heads will roll, you know.”

One of those heads, she assumed, would be hers. Her muscles contracted with tension. She rubbed her shoulder with her free hand. “What happened?” she asked.

“I can’t talk over the phone. You need to come here, to my house.” A beep sounded from Joe’s side of the call. “That’s my driveway intercom. I’ll see you in half an hour.” The line went dead.

With the news of the FBI raid still fresh in her mind, she pulled up her friend Katarina Floros’s social media page. Katarina worked for Ian as a communications specialist, and two weeks ago she’d posted a picture that Petra hadn’t found the courage to “like.”

A couple stood before a lake. The Rocky Mountains served as a backdrop, and the water was so clear there were two sets of mountains and two skies. Without question, it was a photo of a couple as they took their vows. The groom, tall and handsome, was someone Petra knew well—Roman DeMarco, another employee of RMJ. The bride was a woman she’d never seen. Katarina’s husband officiated the service. Ian Wallace, the best man, stood just behind Roman’s shoulder.

It had been two years since Petra ended the relationship with Ian and she had no right to wonder about his life, yet she did. He’d obviously remained in Colorado and hadn’t returned to England after their breakup. Had he taken a date to the wedding, and if so, were they serious? She wondered who Roman had married and if Katarina had thrown a bridal shower—it seemed like something Kat would do. Petra glanced at the picture once more, a voyeur into the life she would never live, and shoved the phone into her bag.

* * *

As she drove through Denver’s more exclusive neighborhoods, Petra’s headache returned with a vengeance. She’d been rash to ignore the pain when it first began at the radio station, and now it was a full-blown migraine. Each throb of her pulse exploded like a bomb inside her skull.

The sun beat down, surrounding everything in a brilliant and blinding halo. She gripped the steering wheel with knuckles gone white and rounded the corner. Joe Owens’s home came into view.

Made of golden brick, with a set of double doors and a side room that resembled a turret, the three-story home was impressive and immense, even on a street of impressive and immense homes. The wrought iron gate was open—unusual, but then he had told her to come. Since she was expected, Petra didn’t bother with the call box. She followed the winding drive to a circular courtyard, where Joe’s cobalt blue SUV sat.

Petra parked her car next to his and turned off the engine. She closed her eyes. Inhaled. Exhaled. Again and again. The pain remained, lurking just beneath the surface, like wisps of fog over a river on a sultry night.

After tucking her keys into her handbag, Petra walked to the front door and rang the bell. Far-off chimes announced her arrival.

Nothing.

She gripped the door handle and pulled down. It held fast. She hit the doorbell three times in a row, the chimes playing and replaying, the echo rolling across the courtyard and down the wide lawn.

Her head throbbed with each chime of the bell, and her frustration grew. There was no way Joe hadn’t heard her, unless he wasn’t home. His car was here, but really, that meant next to nothing. He could have easily been picked up by someone else, or left with the person who’d stopped by earlier, while they’d been on the phone.

Whatever the excuse, her client owed her an explanation. She called his cell phone. It went directly to voice mail.

“Joe.” Petra didn’t bother to keep the irritation from her voice. “Where the hell are you? I’m here.”

She ended the call and rang the bell again. Still no one came to the door.

Petra made a second call to Joe. Again, voice mail picked up. “Just so you know, your behavior is costing me my job. If I get fired because of you, I’ll kill you.”

Shoving the phone back into her handbag, she followed the brick walkway to the back of the house. A pool, complete with a slide and whirlpool, was empty. Two tumblers filled with amber liquid and ice sat on a table. Sweat trickled down the side of the glasses. Joe hadn’t been gone from his drink for long. But where was he? And who had been drinking with him?

Sunlight glinted off the water’s surface. The glare left Petra blind, and the pain in her head was now a thunderous roar. She fumbled in her bag for a set of sunglasses and slipped them on. They did little for the pain, but at least she could see.

Beyond the patio, a set of French doors stood open.

None of what she’d found made sense. Joe valued security even more than privacy. It was unlike him to leave the front gate open and his house seemingly unattended.

Maybe he was home, but doing what? And why ignore Petra, when he had insisted that she stop by? Certainly, visiting a client while sick with a migraine was the worst thing to do. Yet if she could get out of the sun, the worst of her headache might abate.

She approached the threshold and took a tentative step into the family room. Sheer curtains hung from ceiling to floor and billowed in the breeze.

“Knock, knock,” she called. “Joe? It’s Petra. Are you home?”

From somewhere, she heard a gurgling. Petra strained to listen. The noise was gone as quickly as it came.

She took another step.

There it was again—a sound like water struggling down a blocked drain.

“Joe?”

Nothing. Not even the sound. With one hand on the wall, she ventured down a darkened hallway. Her heart thudded against her rib cage. With the thunderous pulse, the pain in her head multiplied tenfold. She staggered, almost stumbling, but pushed herself upright and took another step, her fingers trailing along the wall.

Around the edges of her consciousness, she sensed the lurking nothingness that came with a blackout. Then a burst of pain exploded in the back of Petra’s skull. She pitched forward, slamming into the tile floor. And then all she knew was darkness.

Chapter 2

Once Ian Wallace decided that Nikolai Mateev had to die, it became easy to bend rules and break laws. He sneaked the computer out of the Comrades’ safe house and worked on the laptop in the relative privacy of his black SUV with darkened windows, which was parked two blocks away.

All that ended as he spotted Special Agent Marcus Jones striding purposefully up the street. He wore the obligatory Fed uniform of a dark suit and red tie. In the moment, Ian wondered if the uptight special agent had anything else in his wardrobe.

Ian hit the keys rapidly, then slid the flash drive from the port. He was shutting the laptop’s lid as Jones rapped his knuckles on the side window. “What the hell are you doing, Wallace?” the agent asked through the glass. “I’m pretty sure that’s my evidence in your hands.”

Ian rolled the window down. “This laptop was found—”

“Hidden behind the wall,” Jones interrupted. His nostrils flared and the cords in his neck stood out. “I heard. I am with the FBI, you know. My question is why in the hell did you take a laptop from my raid?”

“Technically,” said Ian, “I’m the one in charge of the raid.”

“I want Mateev as bad as you do, but you’re playing with the FBI now and everything—and I mean everything—has to be done by the book,” said Jones. “I don’t want loopholes that can be exploited during a trial. So just tell me that you didn’t try to get into that laptop. If you did, a judge will consider it tainted and we’ll never get a search warrant for whatever you found.”

Ian’s work here was done. He’d hoped to quietly turn the computer in to evidence and leave without seeing Special Agent Jones, much less have a confrontation. Since that wasn’t going to happen, Ian only wanted to leave. “I don’t want to get into a pissing match with you, but I am the team leader. This computer was found and I wanted to see what was on the hard drive.”

Jones paused a beat. “What did you find?”

“Nothing,” said Ian. “There’s too much encryption to break through.”

The FBI agent dragged his hands down his face, giving him a hangdog look. “No offense, but you’re the biggest moron I’ve ever met. That computer is evidence. You know that. Besides, people in this country have rights against illegal search and seizure. They expect that we’ll conduct a fair and honest investigation and that a judge will sign warrants before we search their property all along the way.”

“Are you done with the lecture on the American legal system?”

“Depends,” said Jones. “Did you pay attention?”

“Remember, you hired me to catch Nikolai Mateev because I didn’t have to play by all of your rules.”

“Consider yourself fired.”

Ian shoved the laptop through the open window. “Take your computer. I have everything I need to find Mateev on my own.”

“You’re off the case. Completely. I don’t want to see you or any of your operatives from RMJ anywhere near Mateev. If I do, I’ll arrest you all for obstruction of justice. Got that?” Marcus took the offered computer.

Ian didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. As far as he was concerned, the FBI had served their purpose. Now? Ian didn’t need them anymore.

He raised the window and put the SUV into gear, the flash drive safely hidden in his palm. Sure, lying to the FBI and stealing evidence made Ian guilty of more than a dozen federal crimes. But what did he care about a little jail time when it meant sending Nikolai Mateev where he belonged—straight to hell?

* * *

Petra slowly regained consciousness, opening her eyes to find herself leaning against a wall, her hand resting on a gray plastic box. Her head throbbed with each beat.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

The last thing she remembered was a phone call from one of her clients, Joe Owens. He’d wanted to see her, but then what? The beeping grew, climbing in intensity, rising in volume before ending in a crescendo of a full-blown alarm. Petra could almost see the sound waves radiating out from the small gray box. She had tripped an alarm. But why? Nothing made sense.

She took in the rest of the room, which was tiled in cream-colored marble and framed with blond wood. Nearby was a set of double doors, and a staircase on the left led up to a balcony that ran the length of the room.

Like seeing the corner of a photograph, the fragment of a memory came to her. It was Christmastime and she stood in this room—Joe Owens’s foyer. She’d spilled red wine on her silk blouse and had been directed to the kitchen where she could get some seltzer water for the stain.

An arched doorway on her right led to the same kitchen. The room beyond was dark. The lights were off and the curtains had been drawn.

Petra caught a glimpse of her dress, her hands. She was covered in splatters of red. Not wine this time. Blood? Icy tendrils of panic reached for her throat and squeezed. Was she bleeding? She scanned her body. Scrapes, bruises, a single cut to her arm. Beyond that, she had the expected residual headache that came after a migraine, and nothing else. So what had happened after she lost consciousness? Why was she covered in blood?

Her handbag lay in the middle of the foyer, the contents were scattered about. Lipstick. Sunglasses. Keys. Wallet. No phone. She dove for her purse and dug into the interior. It was empty.

“Joe?” Her throat was dry, her voice hoarse.

Petra took a step. Her legs trembled, and her vision wavered. She breathed deeply, trying to stay calm. She had to call someone. The kitchen... There’d been a landline in the kitchen. She peered around the corner and found nothing but darkness. Dark floor. Dark walls. Dark forms blending in with the gloom.

“Joe?”

Petra took another step, then another. The floor underfoot was sticky. The odor of copper and meat was thick in the air. The shadow of the island loomed before her. Her foot connected with something solid but not hard. Petra’s heartbeat raced.

Scrambling, she reached for the wall. Her hand danced along the surface until she found an electrical switch. She turned it on. The room blazed with light. A pool of black spread out around her feet. Joe lay sprawled at the base of the island with a knife protruding from his side.

Petra sank to her knees next to him. His shirt was soaked and crimson, his breath nothing more than a gasp. She dared not touch the knife, lest she hurt him more.

“Joe? Joe? Can you hear me?” The alarm continued to scream. Petra couldn’t even hear her own voice.

He didn’t respond.

A loud knocking was heard and above the din a voice called, “Police. Open up.”

The police. She scrambled to her feet, lightheaded with gratitude that someone had arrived who could help Joe—help her.

A large man in a suit stood on the stoop. He held up a small leather portfolio. His badge and photo ID were visible. “I’m Detective Sergeant Luis Martinez with the Denver PD. I’m responding to a home alarm.” He looked her over from head to toe. “Are you injured, ma’am?”

Petra’s legs went weak with relief. She held tight to the doorjamb. “I’m fine,” she managed to say, “but you need to help him.”

“Help who?” the detective asked.

“He’s in the k-kitchen,” she stammered, “and hurt.”

The detective swept past her as three more black-and-white police cruisers rushed up the drive. Half a dozen officers exited the vehicles and ran to the house.

“That way,” she said, pointing to the kitchen as they approached. One of the police officers disabled the alarm. The silence was more terrifying than the noise. In the quiet, Petra could hear a single question echoing in her mind: What have I done?

She leaned on the wall for support. Her throat burned. She wanted to pass out. But she needed to know what had happened to her client.

She stepped toward the kitchen, but Martinez blocked her path. He had removed his suit coat and splatters of blood stained his wrinkled shirt and tie. Over his shoulder, she saw the uniformed police officers administering first aid to Joe. In the distance, she heard another siren, and through the open front door she caught a glimpse of an ambulance racing up the drive.

“I need to ask you a few questions,” Martinez said, steering her to a dining room that was situated on the other side of the foyer. Two EMTs bearing a stretcher entered the house and immediately went to the kitchen, disappearing from Petra’s view.

It didn’t mean that she couldn’t hear what they said. “Starting IV fluids,” said a female.

“Starting IV fluids,” repeated her partner, a male.

“I see seven stab wounds,” said the female.

Seven wounds? She tried to picture herself in a frenzy of what—rage? Fear? In her mind’s eye, she saw nothing.

“Ma’am? Are you okay?” the detective sergeant asked. “Can you answer a few questions?”

She nodded.

“Let’s start with your name and why you’re here.”

“I’m Petra Sloane, Joe’s agent.”

“Can you tell me what happened?”

A thousand images flooded her mind at once. Nothing seemed real. “I have no idea. I can’t remember a thing.”

“You might be in shock,” said the detective. “Take a moment...”

Martinez’s words trailed off as the EMTs came from the kitchen. Joe was strapped to the stretcher. His eyes were closed; an oxygen mask covered his mouth and nose. An IV was attached to his arm. Petra watched in silence as they placed her client in the back of the waiting ambulance and sped away.

“I should call someone,” she said, as the final scream of the ambulance’s siren faded into the quiet morning. “His estranged wife, Larissa, maybe. Or...he has a sister in California.” Petra could not recall her name.

“That’ll hold for a few minutes,” Martinez said. “Let’s get back to why you were here. What can you recall?”

Why had she come? Petra closed her eyes and brought back as many details as she could muster. The blinding sunlight. The heat wafting off the pavement. Joe’s voice in her ear, quick and clipped, his tone low and almost a whisper.

“Joe called me earlier and asked me to come over right away. He needed to tell me something. I figured there was another scandal.”

Martinez removed a notepad and pen from his shirt pocket. He flipped past a few pages before scribbling on a sheet. “Another scandal?” he echoed.

“He’d done some pretty stupid things lately. The stories were all over the press. It’s my job to portray Joe in the best light possible in the media. So if he’d had any more missteps, I should be the first to know.”

“And did he say what kind of misstep he’d made?”

Petra tried to recall exactly what Joe had said. In reality, he hadn’t told her much beyond that he had something important to tell her and heads were going to roll. “I guess he didn’t say anything in so many words. Only that something bad had happened.”

Martinez wrote in his pad and Petra was forced to wait, grappling with memories that she couldn’t quite make clear.

“What time did you arrive?”

Finally, a question she could answer. “About nine thirty.”

Martinez looked at a fitness tracker he wore around his wrist. “And what transpired between then and now?”

Petra went cold. She began to tremble. “What?” The word caught in her throat. “What time is it now?”

Martinez pinned her with his dark stare. “Quarter after ten.”

The detective thought she had stabbed Joe. She could tell, from the hard set of his jaw and his unwavering gaze. She looked away, because the worst part of it all was that Petra feared he was right.

* * *

Ian had gathered his team at an RMJ safe house, a dump of a place in the heart of downtown Denver. The small house had a tiny living room and kitchen on the first floor and two bedrooms upstairs.

He remembered each and every person they’d hidden away in this little house. A presidential candidate after an assassination attempt. A cleric wanted by a terrorist group. Yet he’d never pictured that he’d be here personally, along with his team, in desperate need of a place to lie low.

Was this raid, the one that should’ve been their crowning glory, really going to be their downfall?

They’d gathered in the kitchen, crammed around the small Formica table—Roman, Cody, Julia and Katarina, along with the rest of the team. The air was filled with the electricity of tension and too many unanswered questions.

Roman was the first to speak. “What the hell happened back there? One minute I’m talking to Comrade Three and the next some FBI agent is telling me to leave the witness alone.”

Roman’s statement was followed by a chorus of grumbles. Everyone had been just as brusquely routed from the bust.

Ian asked a question of his own. “How many lives do you think Nikolai Mateev has ruined? Nobody knows his name, and yet his actions—his drugs—have affected almost every single person in this city. Have you ever thought about that?”

“What are you getting at, brother?” Roman asked.

Ian shook his head. There was no avoiding the truth. “Jones fired us from the case,” he said.

Jaws dropped and eyes widened.

“You’re kidding, right?” Roman almost choked on the words.

“There was a computer found at the scene,” Ian began. “I took it to my car and tried to hack into the system.”

“Aw, hell no,” said Roman. “Why would you do a thing like that?”

“I don’t have time to wait for subpoenas and warrants and technicians in Quantico to analyze data.”

“What did you discover?” This question was asked by Cody.

“That Jones isn’t willing to break any rules in order to catch Mateev.”

“There are laws, Ian,” said Roman. “And if we’re breaking laws then we aren’t any better than Mateev. It’s laws that make us civilized. They make us the good guys.”

“I guess that’s just it,” said Ian. “I can’t do this anymore. I can’t be one of the good guys if it means that I’ll never see justice served.”

Julia McCloud was the only female operative at RMJ. From her seat next to Cody, she lifted her hand. “Can you cut the crap, sir? What are you telling us?”

“Aside from the fact that we’ve been sacked from the biggest case in RMJ history, I’m through. There’s no more we can do here. The agency is done.” The words burned Ian’s throat like acid.

Was he really going to close RMJ? It was almost as bad as when Petra left. Ian knew that then, like now, sacrifices sometimes had to be made.

“Mateev has gotten away too many times. Even if he’s caught, he won’t go to jail. He’s too powerful. He’ll slither away somehow like he always has.” Ian shook his head and gave a mirthless laugh. “I’ve become cynical, I guess.”

“A cynic?” Roman snorted. “Sounds more like you’re a quitter.”

Ian’s internal temperature spiked. Sweat collected at the nape of his neck, snaking down his back. “I’m not quitting. I just know when I’m beat. I’m—”

“Quitting,” Roman interrupted.

Ian wanted nothing more than to set him straight, to share his real plans with his operatives. But to what end? Just so they, too, would be compromised—maybe even criminally so? No. He was their leader. It was his job to protect them. This was the best way he knew how to do that.

“As far as the operatives are concerned, RMJ is closed. Katarina, I’ll need you to stay on for the next couple of weeks and help me shut down all the cases.”

Roman slapped the table, a sharp crack that rent the air. “I’ve dedicated my life to this outfit. We all have. Remember when you found me in the hospital, broken both emotionally and physically?”

“What’s your point?”

“You promised a world where justice was pursued and light was shone into the darkest corners of the human heart, or some such crap. And now you’re quitting?”

“I’m not quitting, brother.”

“From where I sit, it looks like you are.” Roman shoved his chair back and stood. “And you aren’t my brother.”

Ian stared at the kitchen table. He slid his hand into his pocket. There, he wrapped his fingers around the flash drive. He hoped that he now held the key that could unlock the last door to Mateev.

If not, Ian had just ruined his life’s work for nothing.

* * *

The interrogation room was a ten-foot-square space with barely enough room for a faux wood table and two plastic chairs. The walls were covered in cheap paneling and the air stank of stale body odor.

Before leaving Joe’s house, Petra volunteered to have her fingerprints taken. Her clothes and purse had been bagged as evidence and she was allowed to wash up. She now wore an extra large white men’s T-shirt and large gray sweatpants, along with a pair of flip-flops meant for a giant—all compliments of the Denver PD. She had also been examined by EMTs, who determined that none of her injuries were life-threatening. Then she had been invited to the police station.

The door opened and she looked up. Martinez entered the room, his bulk making the already small space seem even smaller. He squeezed into the second chair and threw a manila file on the table. Even from her seat, Petra could see the indexed title. It was her name.

Her stomach churned. She hadn’t been arrested or read her Miranda rights, so she hadn’t asked for an attorney of her own. Petra only wanted to be helpful and find out what happened to Joe—no matter the truth. Yet now she couldn’t help but wonder if her decision had been prudent.

“Sorry to keep you so long,” Martinez said. “Do you need anything? Water? Coffee? Something to eat?”

She shook her head. “I’m fine.”

“I have some more items to discuss that might help clear up what happened with Joe. First, do you recall anything more than what you already told us?”

“There are a few things that I remember, but I don’t know how much use they’ll be,” she said.

He flipped open the file and took out a pen. “Why don’t you let me be the judge of what matters and what doesn’t.”

“It’s not a memory exactly, but Joe had several video cameras around his property and even a few in the house...” Petra drew in a breath, fearful of what might have been recorded.

Martinez set his pen aside. “The surveillance system was disconnected. Nothing’s been recorded since last night.”

That was odd. Still, Petra continued, “The front gate was open. It’s controlled by an intercom and Joe always keeps it locked.”

“Did you call up to the house when you arrived?”

Petra shook her head. “We had spoken earlier. He said it was urgent and was expecting me, so I didn’t bother. That brings up something else. Someone had stopped by when we were on the phone.”

“Did he say who?”

Petra shook her head again.

“And then?”

“He didn’t answer the front door when I rang the bell.” The disorientation she had felt upon waking was gone, although not all her memories had returned. “I even called his cell phone. When that didn’t work, I went around by the pool and let myself in through the back. I can’t really remember anything after that.”

“Your fingerprints were found on the home alarm,” said Martinez.

Petra had gotten used to his statements that were really questions. “I think I set it off. The first thing I remember clearly is my hand on the alarm and a lot of beeping.”

Martinez nodded and made a note in the file. “How many times did you call Joe?”

“Twice,” she said.

“Do you recall throwing your phone into the pool?”

“Is that where it was found?” she asked.

“It was.”

“Can I have it back?”

“It’s in evidence now. And you haven’t answered my question. Do you recall throwing, or dropping, your phone in the pool?”

A blast of cold air shot from a vent in the ceiling. Petra crossed her arms over her chest and tried not to shiver. “I remember walking by the pool.” She’d been sick with a migraine and frustrated with Joe. Had she done something stupid, something she didn’t remember, then? “I think my phone was in my purse.”

“Is that a no?”

“No,” Petra snapped. “I didn’t put my phone in Joe Owens’s pool.” She wanted to be helpful, but she had almost reached her limit. “Is this going to take much longer? I did come here voluntarily,” she reminded the cop.

“Do you want a lawyer?”

“Do I need one?” she fired back.

“I just have a few more questions, if you don’t mind.”

Petra blew out a breath. “Sure. Go ahead.”

Martinez scribbled a note. “You were on a radio show this morning. Steve Chan’s, Hot Seat.”

Petra wasn’t sure if it was a question or statement. She answered him anyway. “I was.”

“And what was the nature of your visit to the show?”

“Joe Owens.”

“Anything in particular about Joe?”

Petra didn’t like that Martinez kept using her client’s first name—as if the championship MVP and the cop were somehow friends. “And how is my client?” she asked.

Martinez shook his head. “Not good.”

Petra bit her lip. “Any prognosis?”

Martinez looked at the file, flipping through the first few pages. “None that I know of. Let’s get back to the radio interview. Is it true that, on air, you threatened to strangle Joe Owens?”

Her face tingled. Her hands lay on the table, too heavy to lift. Her throat was unbelievably dry. She swallowed. “It was hyperbolic,” she said. “You know, for effect.”

“I understand hyperbole, Ms. Sloane,” said the detective.

She began to sweat. “And besides, Steve Chan made a joke about all of Joe’s recent scandals and asked me if I ever wanted to wring his neck.”

“And then,” Martinez continued, “didn’t you threaten to outright kill Joe Owens the second time you called his cell phone?”

“I was angry. I didn’t mean anything by it. It was just...”

“Hyperbole,” Martinez offered.

“Do I need a lawyer?”

“You tell me. Do you?” He closed the file. “I want to believe that you had nothing to do with the attack on Joe, really I do. But you threatened his life twice today. You were covered in blood when the police arrived, your fingerprints are on the alarm. Yet you claim to have no memories of anything that transpired for over forty-five minutes. What am I supposed to think?”

“I don’t know,” she said. Her voice was small, even in the tiny room. “I have migraines and sometimes I black out, but can still be on my feet, talking and active. I had an episode this morning.”

Lying, or concealing her ailment, would only make things worse, she knew. Why was it that she wanted to keep these most important details from Martinez? Yet Petra wasn’t stupid. With her admission she’d certainly become a person of interest—maybe even a suspect.

She dug her fingernails into her palm and continued. “I lost consciousness. That’s why I can’t remember.”

Martinez bounced his pen on the file. Tap-tap. Tap-tap. Tap-tap. “Then I guess I was wrong.”

She looked him in the eye. “About what?”

“You do need a lawyer. I’m naming you as a person of interest in the attack on Joe Owens.”

* * *

For Petra, the next seven hours passed in a haze. She cleared out her savings to pay the retainer for a lawyer who had a reputation for being both honest and brilliant. He’d gotten the police to release her car and her purse, and Petra waited alone by the precinct parking lot. A police officer pulled up next to the curb and said nothing as Petra slid into her seat and drove away.

She felt as if she should call someone and check in. But who? Then again, she didn’t have a phone.

With nothing beyond her thoughts for company, she couldn’t help but recall the last time she had blacked out. She’d been a sophomore in college and her mother had called to let Petra know that her father’s CAT scan looked suspicious. Then Petra found out that her roommate had stolen her boyfriend, when she saw them making out on campus. The headache had begun much like it had today. More than a decade ago, she’d lost almost an hour. When she came to, she’d had a pair of scissors in her hand and had cut her own hair.

What bothered Petra then, as it did now, was the fact that she had the potential to destroy. It was her most closely guarded secret and still she couldn’t help but wonder, what did that say about Petra as a person?

She’d never answered the question before. Could she now?

Turning down her street, she saw her condominium complex come into view. The front gate was ablaze with lights from a dozen different TV vans, all the local stations and two cable news networks. Her heart stilled as she stared, wide-eyed. Petra expected that the media would learn of her involvement, but she’d hoped that it would take time, as in days—not hours.

Now what? She eased her foot off the gas and the car slowed.

Petra had no desire to drive through the gauntlet of reporters and questions, to have her privacy invaded by the press. But what else was she supposed to do? Drive around all night?

She heard a sharp knock on her car window. With a start, she turned to the noise. A man in a Colorado Mustangs ball cap stood outside the car. He slapped the glass.

“You,” he said, pointing a shaking finger. “I saw you on TV. You deserve to rot in jail until you die for what you did.”

In the distance, she saw a group of reporters turn in her direction. Microphones in hand and cameramen on their heels, they ran toward her car. She didn’t like her chances in a tussle with the media. Or the crackpot in the ball cap, for that matter.

Jerking the gearshift into Reverse, she dropped her foot on the accelerator. The tires screamed. A cloud of smoke surrounded her. The taste of burning asphalt clung to her lips. She backed up the street, and at the intersection, turned the steering wheel and sped away.

Her heart raced and her pulse thrummed at the nape of her neck. For a time she drove without thought, but all the while Petra knew where she was going. She turned onto the tree-lined street, and her eye was drawn to the Tudor-style home midway up the block. She pulled in to the circular drive and stopped in front of the wooden door. Dark windows stared out like blank eyes. She turned off the ignition and stepped into the rapidly cooling evening air. Petra wrapped her arms over her chest as her flip-flops slapped across the pavement.

She rang the bell. Chimes echoed. The lights remained dark, the house silent.

No one was home, but how long until someone would return? Minutes? Hours? Days?

Coming here was a bad decision, made in a moment of weakness. She considered leaving—renting a hotel room and waiting for the media to get tired of camping out at her condo complex. Then again, she needed more than a place to hide. She needed help and protection. She needed to be here.

Petra made a deal with herself. The door was controlled by an electronic lock. If the combination hadn’t been changed, Petra would take it as a sign, and stay. If not, she’d leave.

She pressed the first number. The second. The third. Then she entered the final number. She gripped the handle and pulled down. The door swung open.

She stepped inside and quickly turned on the light. A grandfather clock stood in the corner and began to ring out the quarter hour. She closed the door and inhaled deeply. The scent was exactly as she remembered, sandalwood and musk and whiskey.

It smelled like him. Ian.

Stepping in farther, Petra ran her hand along the curving newel post. The wood was smooth and warm. Behind her, the door opened. Petra turned at the noise. He stood on the threshold, regarding her with steely gray eyes. He wore black pants and a snug black shirt. His hair was disheveled and stubble covered his cheeks and chin.

Her pulse raced. She gripped the newel post tighter. “Hello,” she said.

Ian gazed at her for a moment before kicking the door closed with his heel. “I definitely didn’t expect to find you here,” he said.

He was neither pleased nor angered. She’d hoped for one or the other, not cool neutrality—especially since energy coursed under her skin, leaving her feeling raw and exposed “I’ve been accused of attempted murder,” she said. “And I need you to help me find out what happened. I want to hire Rocky Mountain Justice.”

Chapter 3

Petra’s words surrounded Ian like smoke.

The last time they spoke, his job had been the topic. She’d cried. He’d yelled. The accusations had been plentiful on both sides. And now she wanted to hire him? In a day that was anything but smooth, this was the last wrinkle he’d expected.

A bolt of anger shot through Ian. She was the one who’d left—and now she was back, asking for help? Damn her!

He checked his emotions and cleared his throat. “You can’t hire me,” he said. His stomach clenched into a hard ball of resolve. “I closed Rocky Mountain Justice today.”

Petra recoiled as if she’d been slapped. “What do you mean? I thought you were working with the FBI. I heard something on the news this morning that made me think of you...”

“There was a raid,” he said, “and we were working together, but we got sacked.” Before she could ask why, he added, “I got caught trying to steal evidence.”

“I know you, Ian. You’re impulsive, but not careless. What’s going on?”

He shook his head. He didn’t want to talk about it anymore, and even if he did, Ian hardly knew what he would say. Nikolai Mateev was out there and Ian was going to find him. He didn’t need this distraction.

“I’m sorry, Petra. I can’t help. It’s too complicated for me to explain, but without my license, anything I do will be considered illegal. It won’t be admissible in court and could send me to jail. And I certainly wouldn’t be of much use to you, under the circumstances.”

“Sure, I get it,” she said. And then added, “I should go.” Her gaze traveled from his face to the door. “The media was at my condo, so I’ll need to find someplace to stay for the night.”

Ian’s chest tightened. He knew Petra, knew she’d already be thinking about the next steps in her case. Should she plea-bargain for minimal jail time?

No, Ian couldn’t turn her out, not if he could help—even if it was only to hear what she had to say. Maybe he could add some perspective.

“Stay,” he said. “Tell me what happened.”

“One of my clients was attacked in his home,” she said. “The police think I did it.”

“And did you?”

“I don’t remember.”

“Shock?” he asked.

“No. It was a migraine.”

Ian had been in business long enough to know that most crimes had as much to do with the victim as the perpetrator. “Which client?” he asked.

“Joe Owens,” she said.

“The Mustangs’ quarterback?”

“You know him? I thought you didn’t really follow American sports,” she said, surprised.

“I live in Denver,” Ian said pointedly. “The name Joe Owens is hard to avoid.”

He paused. Was this all she wanted from him—help? Then again, hadn’t he imagined this exact moment time and again where he got a chance to face her, to find out what had led her to walk out on him? She was asking for his help—but looking at her, he was forced to admit all the time she’d called to him from his dreams since she’d left. Although in his fantasies, she had rushed into his arms for solace...and passion.

In the reality of the moment, she remained rooted by the stairs, and the past two years stretched out around him like a desert. It seemed as though little of their once-blazing desire for each other had survived.

Ian studied her face, trying to catalog what had changed since he’d seen her last. There was a scrape on her chin and a bruise to her cheek. But those differences were superficial.

She wore her hair longer than when they’d been together, and even in the baggy clothes, she was still toned with well-defined muscles, he could tell. There were fine lines around her eyes and slight furrows between her brows. Far from the changes making her less attractive, she had gained gravitas and wisdom. In fact, she was more beautiful than before.

Then that begged the question—what changes did she see in him?

“What happened?” he asked, bringing the conversation around to the reason she was in his home.

Petra’s fingers trailed along the railing. His gaze followed her touch. Ian’s mouth went dry.

“I’m not sure,” she said. “Like I said, I don’t remember.”

Ian wasn’t in the mood for a mystery—not tonight. “What do you know?”

Petra spent the next several minutes telling him about the events of the morning. The interview. The call. The migraine. The blackout. Finding the body, the arrest and getting bail. “I couldn’t think of anyplace else to go,” she concluded. “I hope you aren’t upset.”

For Ian, there were several questions—some more important than the others. He began with one of the most benign. “How about we talk about this over a cup of tea?” He’d never gotten into the coffee habit, despite his colleagues’ ribbing him about his British tastes.

“Actually,” she said with a sigh, “that’d be nice.”

The kitchen was beyond the foyer, and for the first time, Ian saw it as a sterile place—one without use or meaning. The granite countertops and cherry cabinets were wiped clean and sparkled as if in a commercial for lemon-scented cleanser.

It was completely opposite from when he’d lived with Petra. When she was here, the aroma of coffee always filled the house. The island in the center of the kitchen was covered with dishes, a smudge or two on the appliances. At the time, he’d found it too chaotic. And now? He missed the disorder, the sense of home she’d brought to his life.

Who was he kidding? She’d been his home—and he’d been too focused, too obsessed with his target to appreciate everything he had with her.

He set the pot to boil. “You’re in a mess,” he said. “But why come to me? This isn’t exactly the type of case that RMJ handles.”

“Like you said. I am in a mess and isn’t that your specialty? People with problems?”

It wasn’t the answer he was looking for. Ian needed to hear Petra say that she needed him. Yet she hadn’t.

She sighed, “I’m not trying to escape the consequences, even if it means some time in jail.”

Ian tried to admire her bravery, her character. Still, this was Petra, the woman he loved. Had once loved, he corrected, if only to himself.

“Some time in jail?” he echoed her sentiment, each word dripping in incredulity. “You can end up spending your life behind bars. Or worse. Colorado is a death penalty state, you know.”

Her eyes glistened with unshed tears. It was the first sign of vulnerability and it cut Ian to the core.

“I’m scared,” she said. “Scared I did something horrible. Scared that I’ll be prosecuted for something I didn’t do—or worse, that I did but can’t remember doing. Scared that I’ll never know the truth.”

Her words trailed off. Ian wanted nothing more than to wrap her in his arms, to keep her fears at bay. Yet he couldn’t—shouldn’t—touch her.

He asked instead, “Why did you come to me, Petra?”

“I want to know what happened,” she said. “No matter what, you can find the truth.”

The kettle began to boil. At least he could offer her the comfort of a cup of tea. He filled a cup with water and a tea bag before handing it to Petra. “Sugar,” he said. “No cream.”

She looked down and smiled, as if to herself. “You remembered.”

How could he not? Everything about Petra was unforgettable.

Petra scooped in sugar and stirred her tea. The silver spoon hit the side of the china cup, filling the room with a tinny chime. “I guess what really bothers me is that I feel like a ticking time bomb. I’m worried that I’m actually dangerous to everyone—my clients, my friends, my family.”

Ian reached for her wrist, stilling her hand. “I’ll be honest, I have a hard time picturing you being violent—even if your job was at stake and you were frustrated.”

Petra kept her eyes on the counter. “I’m not so sure I agree with you.”

“Here’s the way I see it. Joe Owens is a big bloke—you’re easily half his size. He’s strong and not likely to let you stab him without a fight. Where are your wounds? Why aren’t you bruised from head to toe?”

“But what if I surprised him?”

“What? While stumbling through his house, blind with a migraine? It’s not in your nature to attack someone for no reason.”

“I had a reason,” she insisted. “My boss threatened to fire me because of Joe.”

“Granted, you’re driven—but a life for a job? It hardly seems like an equal trade.”

She pressed her lips together. “I wasn’t exactly in control. There’s no telling what I might have done and no way to gauge my actual strength in that fugue state.”

A tremor ran down his spine. Petra’s honest nature might well be her undoing.

“You didn’t point any of this out to the police, did you?” Ian continued with a warning, “Remember those Miranda rights. Anything you say is likely to be used against you.”

“Are you telling me to lie?” she asked.

“I’m telling you not to make it too easy.”

“Understood,” she said with a nod.

Petra’s situation was like a puzzle box, with only one way to solve it, and thousands of ways to be wrong. His mind began to work and he lighted on a rather simple fact. “You never saw or spoke to Joe after you arrived, correct? He could’ve been attacked and then left for dead.”

“But if I didn’t attack Joe, who did?” she asked.

“Who else might want him dead?”

She shook her head. “I can’t think of anyone. Everyone loved Joe Owens. He was a hometown hero. Championship MVP.”

“Obviously, someone didn’t.”

Petra took a sip of her tea. A bead of tea collected on her lip. She licked it away.

God help him, an image of his lips on hers, his mouth claiming her, their tongues intertwined, came to Ian and left him wanting more than a memory.

He picked up his own tea and gulped down a swallow. The liquid scalded him. Then again, he’d been burned by her before. Passion and pain were opposite sides of the same coin, and in that regard, with Petra, he’d been a wealthy man.

“You said you were on the radio talking about Joe and his most recent scandal...” He let his words trail off so that Petra could fill in the facts.

“He threw a punch at a reporter for asking an embarrassing question at yesterday’s press conference. Last week he yelled at a waitress and his tirade ended up on the internet. Then the week before, he was arrested for disturbing the peace at a nightclub.”

“Was the reporter seriously hurt? Any reason to want vengeance?”

Petra shook her head. “Joe only got in a punch or two before being dragged out of the room. The incident made the reporter famous. He was contacted by a cable sports channel and called our agency for representation. The waitress was given twenty-thousand dollars by the team and she enrolled in college. No one wants to get even.”

“And the police wouldn’t try to kill someone who got rowdy at a club.”

“Doubtful,” Petra agreed.

“There has to be something else. Nobody is completely beloved. What about his personal life?”

“Joe’s wife moved out of their house at the beginning of the summer and took their daughters with her,” she said, leaning back in her seat, her hands wrapped around the cup of tea. “There were rumors that she was having an affair, but he was fighting any divorce proceedings.”

“She wouldn’t be the first woman to want an estranged husband dead so she could be with her lover.”

“It’s more than that,” said Petra. “Joe’s wife, Larissa, was supposedly seeing Arnie Hatch, the team’s owner.”

“Is there any truth to the stories?”

Petra nodded absently. “It’s one of the worst kept secrets in Denver’s sports scene.”

“Then I say we have two suspects—Arnie Hatch and Larissa Owens.”

“We? Does that mean I can hire you?”

“Like I said—RMJ is closed.”

What Ian said was true, but that was only in a technical sense. He was still in business, still able to take cases. And while he wanted to help Petra, he needed to find Mateev. Making the mistake of listening to his conscience, he added, “It doesn’t mean I can’t look into the case a little bit tonight. If I find anything interesting, I’ll let you know. You can turn it over to your lawyer.”

Petra gave a long exhalation, slumping in her seat. “You don’t know how relieved I am. So, what do we do now?” she asked.

“You are going to finish your tea and then you can sleep in the guest room. I’ll do some research on Hatch.”

Petra took another drink and pushed her cup to the center of the island. “Thanks for everything, Ian. You’re a lifesaver and I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

He picked up both cups and turned to the sink. He ran water from the tap, scrubbing away the residue. Glancing at the window, he watched Petra in the reflection. “There are some of your things in the dresser upstairs.” She looked up, meeting his gaze. He dropped his eyes to the faucet and turned off the water. “You left them and I never got around to returning them or putting them out with the rubbish.”

“Lucky me.”

“Always a little sarcastic. I still don’t know what to make of you.”

She rounded the island and stood behind him, her breath warming his back. He turned. Petra was close—so close that he could touch her if he just reached out. And if he did, what would she do?

“I truly am lucky,” she said. Her voice was sultry, like a night too hot and humid for sleep. “Because you’re right. I am in a mess, and before I showed up here, I worried that I was guilty. And now there’s some hope that I’m not.”

“You’re welcome, then,” he said, before adding, “I know our relationship didn’t end well, but I’m glad you came to me. I’m happy to help, even if it’s just a little.”

He reached out, his hand grazing her wrist. She stiffened but didn’t pull away. Ian took that as a good sign and let his fingers trail up her arm. His hands remembered the feel of her flesh. His lips remembered her kisses. His body remembered what it was like to be with hers.

Then again, did he want to get involved with Petra? Hadn’t they had their shot at happiness and wholly missed the mark? Beyond the breakup, there was the aftermath. Two years and nothing—not even a damn email. Could he relive those dark days after she’d left, when Scotch was his only friend?

No, Ian could not—would not—let himself stumble off that cliff a second time.

And yet his fingers burned with the need to touch her.

He bent his head, his mouth brushing her cheek. She exhaled, a quiver in her breath. It was all the encouragement he needed. His lips found hers and he wrapped his arms around her waist, drawing her to him. For Ian, Petra was the best bad choice he could ever make.

* * *

Petra pressed her body into Ian’s. His strong arms wrapped around her waist, pulling her closer to him. He was an intoxicating mix of commanding and dangerous; and tonight, Petra intended to get drunk on her former lover.

She parted her lips and his tongue slipped inside her mouth. Too soon, too fast, she was consumed by the kiss.

Ian gripped her neck and pulled back, exposing her throat as he covered her with kisses. With his other hand, he cupped her breast. His touch was light and her nipple hardened at once. He deepened the kiss, claiming her, making Petra a captive of her own unchecked lust.

Head bent, he kissed her breast, wetting the cotton fabric, his tongue dancing over her nipple. She moaned with ecstasy that she could no longer contain. How long had it been since someone had had this effect on her? How long had it been since her desires had been so ignited?

The questions weren’t hard to answer. It was when she’d last been with Ian. He was something she’d promised never to do again, and yet—here she was.

When his hand skimmed her waistband, Petra quit thinking. Flesh on flesh, his fingers moved lower and lower. He touched the silky fabric of her panties. She was wet, and her innermost muscles clenched with longing and desire. Even though in the back of her mind, she knew this was the worst kind of mistake.

He rubbed the top of her sex, filling her with molten gold, and she no longer cared.

“Ian,” she moaned. “Oh, Ian, I’ve missed you—I’ve missed us.”

He broke away from the kiss and lifted her onto the island before situating himself between her parted thighs. He was already hard. She arched her back, pressing herself into him. Even with the layers of clothes separating them, the feeling was delicious.

“Do you want me?” he asked, his voice husky. “Tell me you want me.”

It would be so easy to love Ian again, especially since she’d never really stopped caring. Then again, what was love if they didn’t want the same life? She already knew the answer—it was an empty sentiment that led to heartache and loneliness.

She placed her hands on his chest and pushed firmly. Sliding from the island to the floor, she pressed the back of her hand to her mouth, not trapping the kiss, not wiping it away. Her fingers trembled. “I shouldn’t have come here. I’m sorry. I should leave.”

“And go where? You said yourself that the media has camped out at your apartment. Don’t be daft,” he said, his voice without a shred of emotion. “Stay.”

Petra gritted her teeth at his calm. She was nothing more than feelings and second-guesses. “Do you always have a stiff upper lip?”

“I suppose so. It goes with the tea and the affinity for British cars.”

“And your dry sense of humor.”

“There’s that, too. By the way, I was wondering—how did you get in?”

The kiss and the passion and the dreams of the future—or rather, the past—were gone for Ian. She needed to drive them all from her mind and her heart, too. “You hadn’t changed the code for the lock,” she said. “I supposed that since I could still get in, you might be willing to help me...”

Ian shrugged. “I guess I never thought that you’d come back.”

It wasn’t the answer she wanted. She wanted Ian to confess that he’d kept the same code deliberately, all the while hoping for her return. Sure, he wanted her, even now—the kiss had proved that. But sex and passion had never been their problem. It was the emotional connection she craved, the knowing that he would be there if she needed him. “I couldn’t think of anyone else to ask for help. Will you,” she asked, “still help me? Even after...” She paused, not sure how to characterize what had just happened. “Even after everything?”

“Like I said, I’ll do some digging tonight and see what turns up. From there, you go to your attorney. Agreed?”

She paused again. This time it was for another indelicate subject—money. After all, he was a professional and well paid for his services. She knew; she used to live with him.

Sure, Petra had her own job. But while she was far from poor, she’d emptied her savings account to retain her attorney. She swallowed. “How much will it cost?”

Ian waved her question away. “Don’t even mention that to me. Now go upstairs and try to get some rest.”

Rest? She could hardly imagine sitting down, much less sleeping. “You said you have some of my clothes?”

Ian raked his hair back. “In the dresser, upstairs guest room.”

Oh yes, he had told her that already. “Then I guess I better...” Her throat burned and tightened, her words trailing off.

“I’ll let you know what I’ve found out about Arnie Hatch’s background in the morning.”

To Petra, it seemed as if the events that led her here had happened years ago and not mere hours. Yet there had been a brief instant while Ian held her that transcended time. In those short moments, Petra had truly felt safe, as if nothing could hurt her.

Ian was now at the sink, rinsing out the teacups. She regarded his form, his broad shoulders and narrow waist—and that rock-hard butt. Without question, he was gorgeous.

But it was what Petra knew about him that made Ian more than appealing. His hair wasn’t just blond, with golden and copper strands woven throughout. His eyes, a stormy gray, actually began as silver near his iris and darkened to charcoal at the edge of his pupil. He had a dimple on his lower back that she had kissed countless times and a scar atop his foot.

Even more important than his looks were his character and unwavering confidence, his dedication and strength. Ian was the kind of man women wanted and men wanted to be.

“Can I help with Arnie? I’ve met him before and—”

Ian didn’t turn around. “I work better alone.”

Alone.

There it was again. She should have known better than to offer. “Thank you, then,” she said, “for everything.”

“You’re welcome.”

Petra waited a moment for him to glance her way. She wanted to look him in the eyes so he’d know...what? Well, that was a question she couldn’t answer.

Without another word, she left the kitchen. The guest room was just as it had been when she’d lived in the house. Thick tan carpet covered the floor. One wall was navy blue and the rest painted an unblemished white. There was a matching navy-and-white comforter on the bed, along with a dresser, a TV on a stand and a bedside table with a lamp. In fact, it was almost as if it hadn’t been used since she left.

She opened the top drawer of the dresser and found half a dozen pairs of her underwear and a few bras, neatly folded. The next drawer held several shirts, two pairs of jeans and a sundress. In the closet, she found an old pair of her ballet flats.

When she’d walked out, she’d forgotten that she’d been doing laundry, until she went to put on her favorite shoes and couldn’t find them. And Ian? He’d never called, either. Never wrote, never texted. In fact, she’d wondered many times if he’d found her clothes—even though they were left in the dryer and hardly something he’d miss.

Petra shut the closet door and went to the adjoining bathroom. She flipped on the light. A face stared at her. She looked over her shoulder, a ready scream on her lips, but found no one there. She looked back and, sadly, recognized the reflection was hers—but not.

Her hair was a tangled mess; her eyes were lost to the dark circles that surrounded them. Her skin was pale and washed-out. Droplets of red lined her cheek—blood? Basically, she looked as feral as she felt.

She turned on the shower, as hot as the tap allowed. Steam rolling out the open glass door collected on the mirror, finally obscuring her image. After stripping off the bulky sweatpants and T-shirt, Petra wondered if burning the outfit would be overly dramatic. With a wry smile, she decided that, yes, it would be a bit much, and she stepped into the spray.

The water was scalding, turning her skin bright red. She jumped back with a yelp, before easing under the shower. The heat didn’t bother Petra then. It was minor compared to the burn she still felt for Ian. She grabbed a bar of soap and worked it into a lather, sliding her foamy hands over her body. Why had she pulled away from him when he’d offered what she wanted? Wouldn’t the comfort she found in his arms be the best salve for her wounded soul?

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